


Maneater

by ChromeHoplite



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood and Gore, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Darkfic, Dirty Cop Bard, F/M, Face-Fucking, Gun Kink, Hand Jobs, Handcuffs, Hooker Sebastian, M/M, Prostitution, Psychological Torture, Public Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Solicitation, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture, incubus sebastian, sad incubus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 14:15:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16662467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChromeHoplite/pseuds/ChromeHoplite
Summary: man-eat·er(according to dictionary.com)nouni. Ananimaldemon that has a propensity for killing and eating humans.ii. Adominant woman who has many sexual partnerswhore with an insatiable appetite.Or as one dirty-cop is about to find out, both.





	Maneater

**Author's Note:**

  * For [velvetmeridian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/velvetmeridian/gifts).



> This Sebard was inspired by and written for [@velvetmeridian](https://velvetmeridian.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. Their work is amazing and definitely needs to be checked out: [herehere](https://velvetmeridian.tumblr.com/post/180184466683/theres-a-couple-scenespages-in-ball-peen-hammer), [here](https://velvetmeridian.tumblr.com/post/178871909033)
> 
> This is definitely not my usual style of writing. Please pay attention to tags. You've been warned.  
> Thank you to @gocaitycat for her beta!

I’m not a mathematician; fuck, I barely passed general math in grade ten. But I know that something’s up when a whore goes into a rent-by-the-hour motel to fuck two johns and he’s the only one that ever comes back out. 

Allegedly. 

I don’t go poking my nose in there after to see. It’s my job, but it’s not my business. Night after night, I hang out in my cruiser outside The Devil’s Snatch, a low-class _gentleman’s_ club, drink my cold, stale-ass coffee, occasionally dump my ashtray full of butts out onto the sidewalk like a good samaritan and watch as the same whore struts his plump fishnet clad ass up and down Moondrop Boulevard, looking for work. It never takes him long. He tucks his silken hair behind one ear, licks his lips as he curls a perfectly manicured black polished finger at someone, and male or female, they just _go_. Every. Goddamn. Time. 

I’ve been watching him for weeks now. He’s always alone, doesn’t ever get social with the other hookers that work this strip. Probably for the best -- he’s way out of their league, would steal all their clients. Last thing I wanna do is get involved in breaking up a cat fight. Might be fun to watch though. Would love to see his face when someone pulls his hair, see if he actually likes it. Bet he does; by the bruises he’s sometimes proudly sporting on his neck, his arms, his legs, he seems like the kind of slut who likes it rough. Or maybe he has no scruples at all. 

Just last week, he went into an alley with some big dude he picked up outside the club, then came out ten minutes later, wiping his mouth like he’d swallowed the world’s biggest load. I couldn’t tell of course, it was too late at night, but his face and hair were soaked, dripping with something dark. Like someone pissed all over him, but it wasn’t likely. Nobody looks _that_ happy after having been pissed on. 

Three days ago, a car pulled up next to him. I can’t be sure, but the whore kind of looked drunk. At least he walked like it, lethargic, not much energy. He bent over to talk to the driver; I was literally parked across the street, and I couldn’t have identified the john in a line up if my fucking life depended on it. Not when that elite piece of trash spread his long legs and rocked side to side as he negotiated a price. It’s like I was paralyzed staring at him, no fuck that, I was staring at _it_ ; his g-string was so tiny under his ripped fishnets that his ass practically ate it up, and at the bottom, I could see his nutsac. Those were panties meant for women. Kind of like what Beast sometimes paraded around in at the Snatch, but they never looked that good on her. 

I took a drag from my cigarette, and my fingers fucking shook. I kept the butt between my lips and my hands made a beeline for my slacks. I don’t think I’ve ever beat myself off to something so quick in my life. It was like a goddamn race. I kept telling the whore under my breath to stay like that, to roll his hips a little more, push out his ass, _that’s it baby_. It’s like the bitch could hear me too. At one point, he looked over his shoulder at nothing, his hand wandered back, and he gave his ass a squeeze so hard, some of the diamond pattern of his tights tore. Then he hooked his long fingers around the black lace that sat on the slight swell of his hips and pulled up, feeding his ass more of his underwear. _Cocktease._

That’s when the last dance at the club apparently ends because riff raff flood the streets. I lean over in my cruiser, chest almost flush with the steering wheel so nobody can see me dry fisting my cock. The whore gives the john a kiss through the window to seal the deal and as he gets into the backseat, the john crawls over the front one like a loser. 

“Fuck,” I muffle a swear, letting my dick go and taking my cigarette out of my mouth. I untuck my shirt, and get out of my car. 

I have half a mind to go over there and pull them apart, but I don’t. You know what I do instead? I motion for a nearby substandard bitch to come over, open the backdoor to my cruiser and tell her that if she doesn’t want to go to jail, she better shut up and do as I say. The dumb cunt obeys without question. She’s all of nineteen -- maybe. Thank fuck foot traffic is going the other way because nobody’s paying attention to me, or to the whore across the street. That car’s already rocking and it puts me on edge. 

I tell the bitch I dragged over to get on her hands and knees and I lift her skirt up. She’s all wrong under there though. Not what I want. Not what I crave. Some distance away, my favorite whore is facing me, but doesn’t see me. I see him through, his hands and face are smeared against the already foggy window. His pretty mouth is wide open in a silent scream, his thin eyebrows are furrowed. I can only imagine the pathetic little sounds he makes. 

“My name’s Doll,” the hooker in my car says. She’s shaking a bit. Either excited or scared. Whatever. 

“I don’t give a fuck,” I tell her, spitting on her asshole, then on my fingers and I shove two of them roughly inside her.

“I… I don’t really like it up there... o-officer.”

This whole time, it's him I'm picturing. I usually don’t favour the ass stuff with bitches, but I've heard about Doll. Her pussy’s the Grand Canyon, can take at least four dicks at once, what would even be the point of dicking her down? It’d be like fucking a wet bucket. I just want her to shut the fuck up; she’s ruining the whole illusion right now because there’s no way my whore sounds or feels the same. 

“Tough,” I tell her, getting my fingers in all the way to the knuckles and twisting them, “it’s this or my gun.” 

She’s pretty fucking quiet after that, save for a bit of whimpering. She might be crying, I don’t know. I’m too busy watching across the street. But I can’t see anything. They’ve gone down low in the seat while I was busy dealing with this slut. What a waste of my time. I’m considering choking this bitch with the seat belt that’s curled right by her head. Bet she’d make pretty noises then. Wouldn’t sound like herself. Could close my eyes with my cock buried down her throat, and get off the slick suffocating sounds she’d make alone.

Let’s try. 

I pull her by her messy bun and turn her towards me. Her knees slide off the hard plastic seats and are now getting sticky and achy on the bare uncarpeted floors of the cruiser. Suits her well enough. _Gutter whore_. 

“Suck my cock, and make it quick,” I order her, sitting back in the seat. I pull up my shirt and let her do the only thing she’s probably good at. And fuck, she’s not even _that_ good at it. Stupid kitten licks, the kind newbies think are cute and sexy. It’s not. It’s fucking annoying. I tell her as much when she looks up at me from beneath her busted fake lashes. They aren’t even put on right. 

She’s at it for two minutes when the whore across the street stumbles out of the car, quickly shutting the door behind him. He gets up to his feet, and saunters away like nothing took place. But he’s different. Yeah, I mean, his crop top’s been ripped part, mostly by his shoulder blades. And my eyes have been glued so much on his ass, that I really failed to notice how fucking perfect his back is. It curves at the bottom at the right angle and accentuates everything from the waist down: round, edible ass, toned, long legs you want to break pushing apart just to bury yourself deeper.

The hooker on my dick is complaining about lockjaw -- no fuck, I’m huge and thinking about slamming into the other whore just got me bigger -- so I just tell her to keep her face there, pump my shaft a dozen more times and blow all over it.

“Get out,” I tell her, reaching over and opening the door across the bench seat for her. She’s dripping my cum all over the seat, so I stop her a sec, rob her of the flimsy tank top she’s wearing to clean it up her mess, then throw it at her while she’s sobbing outside holding her tits so nobody sees she’s topless. Nobody would care, she’s got nothing to show anyhow. 

Once I’m seated in the front again, I wait for the john to come back up to the driver’s seat. After four hours, he never does. I run his plates and what comes up is no surprise: drug pusher, sells to kids, uses harder stuff himself. 

So I have a choice here: I can go over to the car and see what’s happened to the guy, or not. 

Here’s my dilemma: If I go over there, and there’s evidence of foul play, I’ll need to do something about it, like bring the whore in for questioning the next time I see him. If I do that, my suspicion that it’s not the first time he’s done something _unsavoury_ might be confirmed. I’ve seen him with plenty of drug addicts, pushers, crazies and pimps, so as far as I’m concerned, by taking care of these lowlives, he’s practically doing my job for me. But other people won’t see it that way. And if the whore is thrown away for god-knows-what, then what the fuck am I supposed to do on night shift?

I’m about to start rolling, try to find the whore and question him myself. I’ve got a solid fifty pounds on him at least, so if he decides to get violent, it’s not a problem, especially if I’m packing a Glock. I shift the car into drive when the police radio on the dusty dash crackles to life and the disembodied voice of my direct supervisor comes on. 

“Bardo!”

The car’s back into park and I blow air out of my cheeks and pinch the bridge of my nose. This asshole again. Alexis Midford was promoted not even a week ago and already he’s fucking shit up in every single department. I’m gonna need another smoke to get through the next two minutes, I can feel it. I take my time answering, let the push-in car lighter warm up and light my last cigarette. 

“Yeah?” I say, holding the handheld radio sideways as the PTT is pushed harder than it has to be. 

“Finally came thru for ya.” 

What the fuck does that even mean? Because the only way that could be true, is if Midford tells me he’s gone to the hardware store and got himself some cargo sling and a step ladder. For anyone else, a nylon rope would be adequate, but the new sergeant is so incompetent, that he wouldn’t be able to tie a simple hangman’s knot around his own throat.

“‘K, I’ll bite.”

“You’re getting a new partner as of Friday. Name’s Arshad Iyer. Graduated top of his class. He needs a wakeup call and you need a babysitter.”

I’ve only ever _needed_ one babysitter, thank you very much. It was the one who’d fucked my dad behind mom’s back, then fucked me when I’d turned of age. Or at least when I told her I’d turned of age. Tits were her forte, not brains. Maybe this new partner would be the same. 

“Is that a chic’s name? Arshad?” 

“No, you ignorant twat.”

And Midford almost sounds smug when he answers. Makes no difference to me, I’ll get my dick wet wherever. “I honestly don’t see why that’s necessary. I meet my quotas.” 

“Sure you meet your quotas, but you’re literally swimming in a cesspool of crime, you fucknut. You should be quadrupling your quotas! Either you’re slacking off, or you’re taking bribes.”

Our conversation tapers off soon thereafter, mostly because it gets to be four a.m. and I’m off the clock, so I really don’t have to listen to this one-pump-chump anymore. 

I drive across town and a whole district over with my sirens on. The only emergency is getting home so I can down a six-pack to try to figure this shit out. I literally have one night. One goddamn night before I get saddled down. Fuck it to hell. 

I throw my beer against the wall. The bottle shatters and I can hear the neighbours complaining. Jesus Christ. Gotta remember where I am. This is the wrong place for that kind of shit. Here, I’m Officer Bard. People respect me because I wear a badge. You know who else wears a badge? Nazis and Boy Scout leaders who can’t keep their hands to themselves. 

Fuck them though. I would not hesitate to put a bullet between their eyes. And people wonder if angels walk the earth. “Right here, fuckers,” I tell no one, because I’m literally sitting alone at my kitchen table, getting drunk. 

But self-righteousness doesn’t help dick all. I still feel angry. And sick. Like there’s an ulcer eating right through my stomach. I bet this is what guys feel like before having to emasculate themselves to tie the knot. That’s fine, to each their own. I guess, I’ll just have the equivalent of my own bachelor party tomorrow. Last night of freedom and all.  
So this is how I find myself sixteen hours later, hungover, head pounding a drumbeat faster than a cheetah on cocaine, giving Angela five twenty-dollar bills. 

“I’m gonna need more than this, yanno,” the bimbo says, in between smacking her bubblegum that’s probably three days old. She chews like a cow. Probably fucks like one too. One of Claude’s girls. Big surprise. “He’s not right in the head that one; should hear what they say ‘bout him.” 

I’m not interested in gutter gossip. Probably all fueled by jealousy. Nobody’s got an ass like my favorite whore. None of them have that perfect balance of jiggly and firm he does. Easy to bite. Easy to slap. Easy to squeeze your face in there for a snack. Ain’t none of them whose hole I want milking my cock more. Besides, I know he’s fucked up, that’s part of his charm. 

“Christ, it’s not hard, Angela. You just need to bring him up to my place and sit tight until I get there. I’ll give you another twenty if you manage not to fuck that up.” 

“No wonder you’re so stingy, if all you can afford is a place just down a few blocks. I thought you cops made more. Who you spendin’ all your monies on, huh?” 

Fucking airhead. The address I gave her is obviously not my real digs. You don’t shit where you sleep after all. Even dogs know that. She’s heading to to the place I go when I need a nap. Or a couple drinks. Or a subpar fuck. Yeah, yeah, all on the taxpayer’s bill. You don’t think doctors do the same thing? At least I have the courtesy to leave my office (most of the time) when I need to let go a bit. 

This second place of mine isn’t a castle, just a one-room bachelor pad. Has a couch, a TV, a DVD player, a fridge and tonight it has the addition of a tiny little camera set on a shitty clock I purchased today so I can spy. Other than that, I pay monthly. Never exchanged a single word with any of my neighbours; they and the slumlord know me as Chuck Grey and that suits me just fine.

“Nobody special. You bitches just charge too much. I’m a public servant for fuck’s sake; you probably make more an hour than I do, when you’re not standing around doing nothing that is.” 

She finally gets the hint and click clacks her third-generation Good Will pumps in the direction she assumes my whore will starting this evening. I kinda hope she falls, I love watching these hoes get their knees all scratched up. Most of them have spent the last two dollars they have to their names buying tights instead of eating, so if they rip them up, so much the better. The sob story they try to give me while I’m fucking their mouths is hilarious and they whine and complain the whole time about how much their knees hurt as a result from their new concrete rash. 

Anyhow, it doesn’t take Angela long, which is a nice change from what I hear. I’m in my unmarked car, sitting a little lower when I see him go past. On this fine Thursday night, he’s barefoot. Long black spiked boots, slung over his shoulder, like he’s been walking miles in them. And he might have been. He looks positively depleted, slouching more than usual, dragging his feet despite the fact that the ground is littered with broken glass and broken needles. 

He’s not put together as well as he usually is either. Hair’s a little greasy, slicked behind his ear with one strand that keeps falling in his face no matter how often he keeps tucking it back. He’s wearing some shitty, black cropped MCR t-shirt that he obviously tore the bottom of himself -- it’s wrinkled and frayed; but he’s still smokin’ with his lean belly all exposed. And that ass. 

That ass.

Full and got some bounce when we walks in his slate grey leggings. They’re so tight he’s wearing them like a second skin and the outline of the tiny underwear he’s wearing is clearly visible underneath, as well as outside where the lacy straps straddle his hips. You can see it because the tease has folded the waistband over so many times, it’s a goddamn miracle that the tights manage to stay on at all. Maybe it’s his night off? This bitch clearly expects comfort tonight. Too bad he won’t be getting that from me. Or from anyone else it seems. 

Because all of a sudden, Angela comes into my view and wrecks it with her busted face, but she’s not alone. She’s got another five people with her, all following my whore like some fucked version of the Pied Piper. And if I wasn’t so pissed off right now, I’d laugh, because it’s actually fitting, the deadbeats trailing behind him are as dumb as kids, and as filthy as rats. 

I’ve seen the others before. There’s at least two crackwhores there and an old cumdumpster. I’m really, really hoping they don’t touch him; I don’t want whatever it is they’re spreading. Claude’s there in his expensive, shitty alligator-skin shoes, bringing up the rear with one of his goons. I’m pretty sure at this point, Angela’s sold me out. Her pimp knows me. Knows I take from his girls without ever paying. I can’t help that they’re practically throwing their pussies at me.

Blame it on the alcohol still working itself out of my system or my lack of sleep, but I’m paranoid now, because either Angela actually has cause for concern with my whore and thinks that there’s power in numbers, or this whole thing has been an elaborate set up by the pimp to get something on me. Fuck. Fuck! 

Okay, so the worst Claude could get is a fake name if I don’t show up there. So what the hell am I supposed to do? Kick back and watch as my whore gets fucked by everyone but me? I mean, on any other night, that wouldn’t be so bad. I honestly don’t know why I haven’t thought of it sooner. 

But it doesn’t work for tonight. Not when I’ll have some eager-to-please noob, an ass-kissing rookie following my every move as of tomorrow. 

The posse turns the corner, goes down the street that leads to my place and disappears altogether. More than a little annoyed, I grab my phone and tap the app for the camera I set up and wait. I’d told Angela for them to both sit on the sofa, to be nice to my whore and maybe suck him off a bit or something; that location’s the only one I’ll get a clear shot of the whole apartment. 

Minutes later, the bastards all come in, and the dark haired beauty is the only one who bothers to wipe his bare feet on the shitty welcome mat before coming in. The rest of them just walk into the joint like they own it, Claude’s goon actually pushes my nineteen inch TV from Walmart off the ledge where it’s perched just to be a dick. The pimp sits at one end of the couch, my whore at the other. They’re they only ones not talking. 

Or at least that’s what I assume. I’m kicking my own ass right now for not having paid the extra twenty dollars for audio, if only to hear his voice. 

One of the crackwhores reemerges in the shot with some of my beer, gives one to Claude and keeps the second for herself. She’s making her way towards my whore and I slam my fist on the horn for her to keep her filth off him. Luckily, Angela chooses that moment to straddle his lap. 

He seems to like it about as much as I do. He’s gone rigid and I see him squeeze the arm of the couch to his left. She leans in and whispers something in his ear and whatever it is, he’s not into that either. He shakes his head no, but it’s barely noticeable from this angle. Whatever he’s said, she ignores him. Starts kissing his neck, pushes his face to the side with her dirty hand and chipped-polished talons to literally gum his pale, graceful throat. He winces when her nails leave a mark on his face, and I’m ready to pistol whip the bitch for doing it. 

If anyone’s going to mar that pretty fucking face, it’s me. 

With the way they’re positioned, I can’t see too much of him by the time her hips are moving and her fat ass is grinding up a storm. His heels have left the ground and his toes are pointed down, the balls of his feet digging into the cheap parquet flooring. Both hands are now clutching the couch, and it might be the terrible reception, but it looks like his fingers have gone right through the tan, corduroy upholstery, which should be impossible given how strong that cheap shit is. 

Somewhere in my head, a little voice is telling me to pay attention to the rest of the fuckers in my apartment, but I couldn’t care less right now. I only have eyes for him. He’s struggling under her weight, and she’s all of maybe a hundred and twenty pounds. He doesn’t come off weak when he’s walking, but fear is screaming from my whore’s body in the way the tendons in his arms are sticking out, the way his hands are shaking, and the skin of his knuckles is getting pallid. It’s hot. So fucking hot.

And I never planned on being gentle with him. But if _this_ scares him... Christ, I can’t wait to see what he does with my gun cocked against his head while he’s getting his face fucked. So pretty. So pale, with chapped lips cracked and bloodied, dark smudges under his eyes from the tears streaming down his cheeks. 

He better cry. I want him used. Reduced to nothing. Discarded and broken. Like a dream. 

I’m about to start jacking to my fantasy when my whore’s hands release the couch in favour of Angela’s back. He’s wrapping his arms around her, caging her in them, not like he’s embracing her, but the way a kid holds onto a parent -- with ferocious desperation. 

She turns her head to say something to her pimp, she’s laughing and so is he. But my whore’s having a panic attack. It’s obvious when she climbs off of him and settles herself between his legs. He’s pressing the heels of his hands in his eyes, breathing hard from between clenched teeth, chest heaving up and down, up and down. His head tips back onto the sofa as she pulls down his leggings and curiously enough, he actually accommodates her by lifting his ass a bit. 

I can see his mouth moving, it doesn’t stop. It’s almost funny, like he’s reciting prayer or something. His Adam’s apple is bobbing with every convulsive swallow. He looks like he’s whining. Begging. Pathetic. Like a virgin getting an audience to watch him get his first blowjob. And they’re all watching him with weird expressions on their faces. 

Fuck I wish I knew what he was saying. 

Even though I can’t see it from this angle, I know Angela’s got his dick in her hand. I can see her wrist move, jerking with quick, sure stroke. And she goes down. 

Once. 

Twice. 

On the third time, his hands shoot out and are on her head faster than what should be normal. In a blink of an eye, I notice that they aren’t _his_ hands. I mean, they’re attached to him, but they don’t look _human_. The fingers are elongated and bony, and his usual neat, short nails were replaced by black, razored talons. They bite into Angela’s head, driving into her skull like it was Jell-O. A mixture of syrupy blood and lumpy grey matter oozes from the wounds at her temple, mixing into her already matted peroxide-bleached hair, and dribble down her face as she writhes in place on my whore’s lap. 

My eyes go wide, I shake my phone in front of my face like an Etch-a-Sketch, sure what I’m seeing can’t be real. On the video, only Angela’s moving, her body spasming, limbs twitching like she’s being electrocuted and the whore’s grey leggings get dark, presumably saturated with her urine. While everyone wears nearly identical expressions of horror, the whore’s is one of disgust and deepest loathing. What’s only been a handful of seconds, stretches on for what feels like hours. In a decisively forceful twist, the whore rids the pitiful head in his hands from its body, and watches as it falls limply to the floor. 

I should be appalled. I should put my phone down, go to the station, turn my badge in and check myself into the nearest crazy house, because there’s no way in hell this is even happening. 

I’ve seen some guys break necks before, but not like this. Not tearing through flesh and fascia and vessels like one rips into a Christmas present. The skin that’s torn clean off the shoulders leaves mangled flaps dripping blood onto my fucking floor as the killer assesses the damage. I don’t know how I managed to miss it, but it isn’t until the whore runs a finger delicately down the spinal column still attached to Angela’s head that I notice it there. The long, thin structure still decorated in nerves and blood and a number of its vertebrae dangles some fifteen inches when the whore grips it at the base of the exposed brainstem, turns the head towards the bottom and keeps its gaping mouth on his cock. His black tongue swipes across his dried lips, then he fucks himself with the disembodied skull wrapped in dying tissue. 

For once, I felt a kinship with Claude, who in the video, simply sat there gawking. I couldn’t take my eyes of the pretty thing getting head, in the most literal sense of the word. He smashes it into his lap repeatedly, taking the spinal cord between his lips, sucking and gnawing its rubbery texture. The white-yellowish fluid at its core runs sloppily down the sides of his mouth, accumulating at his chin. His eyes flutter and he looks as if he’s moaning, putting on a show as his legs spread and his hips start bucking up.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” I whisper under my breath and his eyes go wild and wide, the red slits gleaming, staring up at the clock as if he heard me.

That’s when he smirks. 

And I fucking lose it, because I’m a man of simple pleasures and this is as far from simple as you can get. My pulse’s tripping over itself, trying to figure out if I’m scared or horny, and I settle on both. I’ve never been so hard in my life. Christ I’m ready to blow a load in my pants, completely untouched. What’s this thing eyefucking me through the camera, keeping me glued to these faux-leather seats? 

Whatever it is, it doesn’t have the same effect on the occupants of his room. They finally get over their momentary shock and in the length of a heartbeat, it’s utter hysteria. I can’t hear a damn thing, but I can see the crackwhores screaming, backing away slowly. Claude’s thrown cumdumpster off his lap and both he and his goon are jumping my whore. 

Fuck.

I fling the phone onto the passenger seat and it falls somewhere on the floor. I don’t know exactly where, and I don’t care. I’m out of my car, slamming the door shut behind me and taking off across the street in the direction of my apartment. As a rule, I never chase perps by foot, that’s why I have a god damn Crown Vic. And if they’re smart enough to go somewhere I can’t follow or run down, they deserve to get away. But this running has a single purpose in mind: to punish any fucker that dares leave a mark on my whore. 

I run the three blocks to my apartment building, feeling my holsters to make sure my gun and taser are where they should be, and by the time I reach the fourth floor unit at the south side of the complex, my lungs feel like they’re on fire. 

It doesn’t matter, the adrenaline is so potent, I just burst through the door. It ricochets against the wall and I put out an arm from stopping it slamming into me. It’s deathly quiet except for the sound of wet chewing. 

My own throat goes dry, my muscles seize up and I’m sure they can all hear my heart thumping some stupid erratic rhythm. Unconsciously, my hand finds my Glock, and whatever blood I had left in my fingers when they wrap around the handle is gone from gripping it so tight. I take two steps towards the living room, still out of view when suddenly:

“Go away, officer.” 

The voice that spoke is not one I recognize, but I know to whom it belongs. The words are panted, breathless with both fear and exertion. Suddenly, my concern for the whore drains away, leaves me completely. I’m in control now. When he comes into view, his back is to me, and he’s crouched over something, making little contented suckling sounds, lips smacking, whining lewdly as he stuffs his mouth with the gore that surrounded him. 

Slowly, I inch closer, keeping my gun aimed at his head which is bowed over whatever he’s feasting on. It’s only when my boot comes in contact with a puddle of darkened crimson that I’m finally immersed in this Rob Zombiesque nightmare. 

There’s blood everywhere. 

Like fucking everywhere. 

It paints the walls, it’s splashed across the windows and fills the cracks between the parquet tiles. Even the swinging light bulb overhead is saturated in it, giving the room a rosy tint. Now it’s filling my nostrils, and the smell of it is coating my tongue thickly in rust and iron. Jesus Christ, I didn’t know the human body held so much blood and given I can’t see the other five full-sized adults that were here minutes ago, I assume they all more or less contributed to the mess.

That’s not true. I do see them. I recognize the leg in front of me as belonging to Claude because of those repulsive shoes. And there’s part of his face not even a foot away, the cheeks seemed to have been chewed completely off, as does the fleshy part of his nose. I guess that takes care of my snitch problem. Identity’s safe for now, I suppose. 

My musings are interrupted by a hollowed-out torso being thrown against the nearest wall, its ribs have been picked clean and in certain places, gnawed at. His clawed hand reaches for an indiscernible carcass and he greedily pulls it towards himself by the large intestine. He holds the string of guts over his face and its contents spill into his mouth effortlessly when he squeezes two fingers around the end and drags them to the opening the way one would toothpaste in a tube. 

“I told you to go,” the weak, shaky voice commands. As if for extra privacy, wings that were not there previously break through the flimsy drenched shirt he’s wearing. Their appearance makes him cry out in pain and hunch over his prey.

I tilt my head, unimpressed. On a majestic, strong being, they might be imposing; after all, the expansive double folds with slightly curled spurs at each segment look hellish to say the least. But as it is, they’re dragging on the floor, bathing in the blood. Christ on a cross, he can’t even curl them around himself or keep them up. 

_Weak._

I bark a laugh, squatting by part of Angela’s discarded corpse, reaching into her blood-soaked cut-off shorts and taking my money back. I’d overpaid her anyhow. “Don’t think I can, sweetheart. You see, you’re breaking and entering,” I joke; clearly a B&E is the least of his problems right now. 

He doesn’t find it funny. His head whips around and he snarls in a trivial challenge for dominance. His lip curls, exposing sharp fangs that gleam white; it’s the only surface in the room that isn’t otherwise drenched in sanguine fluid. “You should be scared, _officer_.” 

He smears he last word like it’s a curse. I’m almost offended. It’s like he doesn’t believe I have any actual power over him. Every move he makes right now seems to, at best, cause him discomfort. 

I muster all the bravado I have. Summon it from the deepest pit in my stomach. I’ve lasted this long, but the stench is really starting to get to me, and from the corner of my eye, I can see the bottom half of one of the crackwhores twitching before rigor mortis sets in. “Really princess? What are you gonna do? Eat me? You look pretty bloated. Can’t hide anything when you wear a shirt like that,” I point out, waving my gun towards his firm abdomen. 

“I can smell your fear. Your arousal. I can see your hands trembling. You can lie to me with your mouth, but you can’t lie to me with your body. Ever,” he answers gruffly, getting to his feet. He’s still grasping the emptied, pliable organ and he’s wrapping the slack around his hands as would an assassin readying to asphyxiate an intended target. 

But guts aren’t wire. And if he’s resorting to using mush to subdue me, he really isn’t a threat.

That is, until he rushes me and my survival instincts kick in. I release the safety, squeeze the trigger and the gun kicks back. 

In hindsight, I probably didn’t have to shoot him. Could have tased him as he lumbered almost drunkenly towards me. Whatever the whore is, I know it’s not people, but it’s also not bulletproof. Its red slits give way to black sclera moments before it goes down with a resonated inhuman wail.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and Feedback would be greatly appreciated!  
> Feel free to send some asks my way [@chromehoplite](https://chromehoplite.tumblr.com/)


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